


Vacancy

by Polly_Lynn



Series: The "Unnamed" Series [11]
Category: Castle
Genre: Angry Sex, F/M, Fingerfucking, Light Angst, Male-Female Friendship, Penis In Vagina Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sex, Sex Toys, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-14 07:04:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7158794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“She doesn’t care that he’s pissed at her for leaving. She was always leaving. Hadn’t wanted to be there in the first place and never had the chance to ask him just who the hell he thinks he is, arranging her life like that. Him and Montgomery talking past her like a fucking child.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vacancy

**Author's Note:**

> Post–Boom! (2 x 18). And I guess this is in the Unnamed Series. Written 10th, but it's 9th in show chronology. Not that this series can co-exist with canon.

 

 

She doesn’t care that he’s pissed at her for leaving. She was always leaving. Hadn’t wanted to be there in the first place and never had the chance to ask him just who the hell he thinks he is, arranging her life like that. Him and Montgomery talking past her like a fucking child.

_You can and you will_

_Consider it an order_

She doesn’t give a _shit_ that he’s made himself scarce. That he’s unnervingly damned near silent when he does show up at a scene. At the precinct at longer and longer intervals for briefer and briefer stints. There’s nothing in the world she cares less about than his feelings, when she’s the one trying to build her life back up from scratch. From ashes.

She doesn’t _care,_ she tells herself again as she climbs the unfamiliar subway steps and strikes out for the dimly lit block at a clip that that has nothing to do with pushing through the unseasonably cold night air.

She’s so thoroughly occupied with not caring that she damned near runs into him on her doorstep. Damned near screams at the horror-show shadows that don’t quite swallow him up.

“Castle!” She pivots at the last second. Just manages to redirect the arc of the heavy shopping bag she’s swung his way on pure reflex.

He doesn’t react. Doesn’t flinch.

“Beckett.”

Her name is flat. He’s angry. Angrier, even than the last time she saw him, if that’s possible, and she doesn’t fucking care.

“What are you doing here?” She straightens her shoulders and makes herself leave it at that. One straight-to-the-point question, because it doesn’t matter how he even found out where "here"is. It doesn’t matter why he bothered to find out, if he’s so pissed.

The straight line of his mouth tightens. His shoulders hitch as he flicks a glance at the spiderweb crack in the glass door. At the buzzing, intermittent fluorescent overhead. He jerks his hand up. Raises a heavy shopping bag in an arc that stops just short of her own.

“Housewarming present.”

 

* * *

 

She doesn’t know why she asks him up. Doesn’t know why he says yes. He _doesn’t_ say yes, actually. He doesn’t even nod, just follows her through one door, then another. He just follows her up the rickety staircase.

She doesn’t know why he takes the heavy bag from her without a word when she fumbles with her keys. She doesn’t know why the hell he came, when he doesn’t have a word to say. When he can’t even muster up a pleasant fiction when they take two steps from the door and they’re ten feet from the far edge of the place. Ten feet from the exposed brick wall and less than that from the handful of boxes holding everything she owns.

“It’s temporary.” She doesn’t know why she says it. Why she says anything at all, when she doesn’t owe him any explanation.  

“Well, thank God for that,” he snaps. “How long?”

“That’s really none of your business.”

She snatches the shopping bag from him. The wrong shopping bag. It’s his, not hers. She’s in the act of shoving it back at him. In the act of telling him to take it and get out when something arrests her attention. Scent and disbelief. Memory and feeling washing in on the tide of it. She tears the bag open. Fumbles its nearly endless contents out on to the rickety hall table. It’s familiar. Every last jar and tube. Every letter on every label.

“What _is_ this?” She whirls toward him, her heart skipping curiously.

He’s nervous. She sees that beneath the tight lines of his shoulders. The drawn-down corners of his mouth. She sees more than that behind the hard anger in his eyes. He’s afraid, but he pushes right through it. “I told you. House . . .”

“Where did you get it?” She shoves a slim, elegant bottle toward him. It’s bath oil. The only scent she can stand, and it’s nearly impossible to come by.  “How did you even know . . .”

“How?” He closes the distance between them. Takes the bottle and slams it down behind her as his mouth lands on the glimpse of skin just above the collar of her heavy coat. “How do you _think_ I know, Beckett?” His teeth close hungrily—sharply—at the base of her throat as he claws at zippers and buttons. “How do I know what you taste like?”

“You fucking _snooped._ ” She pushes his body off hers. Shrugs the coat to the floor and comes for him. She slams him against the too-near wall and fists her hands in his hair. She kisses him hard, savoring the sharp tang of his fury. Her own. “You fucking went through my bathroom.”

She drags her tongue along the maddening line of stubble under his jaw. Bites his ear, savage enough to make him retaliate.

“Every inch.” He knocks at her ankle with one heavy boot. Throws her off balance and catches her around the waist. He peels her sweatshirt up and over her head, gliding rough palms up her sides and over her breasts. “Medicine cabinet. Vanity. Everything. Before he blew it up.” He drops his head and opens his mouth wide. He tongues one nipple through the cheap cotton of a new bra. Tears the cup away from the other to toy with it freely. “Went through every nook . . .” Their voices weave together. A single groan as his free hand shoves its way between their bodies to cup her hard against his palm. “ . . . every nook and cranny before he tried to _kill you._ ”

“Every,” she echoes weakly as her fingers tear at his shirt buttons. At his belt and fly with no rhyme or reason. “Every . . .”

An alarm bell rings, somewhere deep and distant. Her heart pounds and her breath races in and out with more than the satisfaction of his busy fingers and hot, seeking mouth. She straightens her arms, pushes him far enough off that his lips pull from the swell of her breast with a wet pop. Annoyance flashes across his face. A flicker so brief, there’s no satisfaction in it for her. None at all when realization takes its place. When his eyes darken and he drops to a crouch to pull off her boots and socks. To drag her jeans from her hips to the ground, lightning fast.

“Every. Inch,” he says again. His tongue flicks out once to taste her. Once more before he hauls himself up the length of her body and pins her to the wall. “I found it.” He skims feather-light fingers between her legs. Spreads her lips to find her clit with breathtaking ease. “Your little toy.”

She flushes hot from head to toe. Wants to run. Wants to _kill_ him, but he’s lazy and patient and decidedly in charge, spilling dirty, conversational little wonderings in her ear.

“Strange place for it,” he murmurs, just barely teasing her with a fingertip. Holding her hips steady with the press of his own. “Tucked away up in the medicine cabinet.” He curls his wrist, smudging his thumb lightly over her and letting his finger glide further inside her body. “Are there rules, Kate? Is that why it’s tucked away? How long? How often?” He draws his hand back. Draws it entirely away. “When and where?” His finger plunges back in. Harder  this time. Further.  

“Fuck you,” she mutters, but it’s unconvincing. He laughs in her ear.

“Mmm. In a minute.” He thrusts against her. Rubs his cock hard against the heel of his own hand. “I have questions.”  He tugs his finger free again, curling along the way. Arching her spine and sending her on tip toe with frustration. “Do you like it best here?” He caresses her clit with two broad fingertips. “Fast or slow?” He demonstrates both. Ponders the question with agonizing patience, but she’s out of her mind, rushing to the edge only to have him pull her right back. “Is this enough?” He makes one last filthy circuit before his fingers glide further back. “Just that tiny curve at the end.” He pushes two fingers in this time. Has to insist more than a little, because he’s left her achingly tight. “I wonder if it’s enough.”

His words fall off. He’s preoccupied with the precise, shallow thrust of his fingers. With the sounds clawing their way up her throat.

“Fuck. Castle.” She writhes against him. Surprises him enough with the move to remind him that he’s angry. To remind them both how, exactly, this started.

“I _said_ in a minute.” He kisses her roughly. Lets his fingers dive deep just once. “Maybe.” He drags his fingertips idly back and forth with cruel, patternless intent. “If you answer.”

“Answer _what?”_ She tries to shift her hips, but it’s absolutely a no go.

“Is it enough?”

He hides his face against her neck. Biting. Marking her, and she feels the tension in his arm. His spine. The struggle to keep still otherwise. She wants to break him. Badly wants to break him, right up until the moment she feels his breath stirring in her ear. Words so soft that her furiously buzzing mind can hardly untangle them.

“Alone, Kate. Is it enough?”

The tension bleeds out of both of them, then. The anger and whatever else this is.

“No,” she says. Confesses into his skin as she tugs his shirt down his arms. Confesses again, straight into his mouth as he fumbles with the rest of his own clothes. “Not enough.”

“No.” He hoists her up, hands at the back of her thighs. The cracked plaster is awful against her back, but he pushes into her and she doesn’t notice anymore. Has no attention to spare for anything but the feel of him rocking into her as he chants in her ear. “Not enough.”

She’s farther gone than he is. So much farther gone that it hurts. The frantic pace of his thrusts  _hurts_ and her mouth opens in a wide howl, and then she’s climbing again. Falls behind this time. So far behind she doesn’t remember how they wind up tangled on the floor. Doesn’t remember anything than his fingers coasting to a reluctant stop. His lips and tongue tugging lazily at one breast, then the other, and then they’re still. Cold and miserably uncomfortable. Spent and still.

“A few weeks.” She breaks the silence. Winces at the echo. “Just a few weeks here.”

“Good,” he says, trying to sound like he means it. Trying to sound like there aren’t a hundred other things he wants to say. “That’s good.”

“You can save . . .” Her eyes drift up and back, disoriented despite how cramped the space is. “The housewarming thing. Save it for when . . .”

“No.” He rolls toward her. Presses up on his palm and looms. “You should have something . . . familiar. Even here. You should have something good.”

He searches her face. _Good._ It’s a question. She closes her eyes. Nods. _Good._  

“Even here,” she breathes.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Dunno. No explanation other than being suddenly tired of the mushy stuff I’ve written in this timeframe. 


End file.
